


Growing Pains

by orphan_account



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst but it’s worth it, Collateral Beauty AU, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lots of love later because these boys deserve the universe, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, The holy trinity we deserve, mild depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 09:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18775153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ash wrote and sent letters to Death, Love and Time after his brother died, what he didn’t expect was for them to show up the next day at his door.He didn’t expect to cross paths with the doe-eyed photography student again, and again and again.





	Growing Pains

**Author's Note:**

> new to the fandom, not new to the suffering :)

And Ash ran through the streets, his throat closing to breathe the cold air and hold back the tears that flowed from his eyes.

 

The envelope with the letter of a pulse that trembled fell from his hands when colliding with someone walking in the other direction.

 

The simple blow caused a dizzy reaction and the feeling of vomiting.  He picked up his letter and stuck it next to his chest with the other two.  When he saw the first mailbox he found, he walked towards it and looked at the letters with a neutral face.

 

He had spit out his feelings and anger in letters, he hoped that they would reach his receiver—and that they would  hurt his receiver. 

 

Before throwing the letters in the mailbox, a man with wild purple hair approached him. Ash didn’t noticed him until he was a couple of feet away. 

 

"You shouldn’t be drunk and alone at night, much less in these streets.  I speak of experience, "he said suddenly.

 

Ash staggered and had to look up, he had black glasses—who wore sunglasses at midnight?  "What, you’ve gotten into fights?"

 

"Something like that.  Sometimes I stop them. "

 

"You seem to be someone who starts them." The letters staggered in the mouth of the mailbox.

 

"Not really.  I don’t like to participate; it's people like you who make me do.”

 

Ash turned to see him for a moment, then laughed and tucked the cards completely.  The man sighed and leaned his body into the mailbox.

 

"Go home, Aslan."

 

Ash turned to see him and analyzed this man as much as he could, it was difficult with his mind trembling and cloudy; he had no idea how this man knew his name-his real name.

 

"Um. . . I don’t think I know you, do I? "

 

"You met me again at Griffin's funeral two weeks ago." The mention of his late brother made his heart go through a horrible internal movement.

 

"I don’t remember your face.  I would recognize that hair if I knew you, "

 

He laughed and turned to look at the mailbox for a moment as if he was thinking what to say, then, "You should go, tonight I don’t want to take you home."

 

Ash staggered and raised his hands, "Easy man, I don’t want you to join me either. Fucking hell, I don’t even know you—people like you disgust me. "

 

"People like me?"

 

"Men who believe they can take advantage of my state;  Do you think I can’t defend myself? I could beat your ass on a Sunday.” Ash fought.

 

"You imply something different, Aslan." He turned to see the streets and cars go by, "Go before someone really takes advantage of your state."

 

Every day someone would come to him to flirt and suggest Ash to accompany him to his house, normally he knew how to handle perfectly and put those men in his place but this time Ash was emotionally unstable and drunk; he didn’t have time to fight with a stranger.  He left the mailbox and that man and returned from where he came from, his hands well tucked in his pockets.

 

Shorter did not leave until he knew Ash had disappeared from the streets, climbed the stairs—stumbling—of his building and closed the door of his apartment.

 

In the morning, Ash had the worst headache he could remember.  His head was constantly throbbing and his eyes hurt excessively as a ray of sunlight passed through his window.  The first thing he did was run to the bathroom, slip on the floor and vomit. He didn’t understand why he drank, his tolerance for alcohol was not resistant. At all.

 

He stayed for a few seconds with his head leaning against the toilet and feeling like shit while recovering his five senses.  Then he washed his teeth twice and left the bathroom with his hand covering his eyes. He needed ibuprofen.

 

He took two pills just in case and waited for them to take effect, when he decided that he felt slightly better he left the bathroom and could see with more lucidity the state of the place: it was disgusting.

 

His clothes were lying all over the hall, both dirty and clean, beer bottles on the table—notice that there were not too many—and a cup on the floor along with his pencils and pens.

 

Rubbing his eyes and groaning in protest, the latter was the first thing to lift and that's when he saw the papers scattered on the table and on the floor.  Ash approached with his hand now annoyingly rubbing his forehead as the memories of yesterday emerged from his dizziness. It was blurry but Ash remembered being on the floor, sobbing after weeks of not crying or feeling anything at all, he remembered throwing things from his desk and having unconsciously taken paper and pen, and start writing all the pain he felt at that moment. He remembered writing the the  _ from Ash  _ on the letters and putting them in crumpled envelopes, he remembered himself collapsing on the floor and have risen after minutes, then leaving without the greatest importance to the street.  The rest was blurry.

 

The things that one does under mourning and alcohol.  Ash began to clean efficiently and picked up the mess of his house.  While passing, he noticed the red light blinking on his answering machine.  Ash pressed it as he sweeping the hallway.

 

_ There’s a new message.  _

 

_ “Um-uh, hey Ash. It’s Max, just wondering how are you—Jess and I haven’t heard about you in weeks and Michael asks about his big bro daily. . . Alex told us you haven’t been going to work for the last days and. . .he’s worried—we all are worried. You haven’t answered anyone’s messages and you’re clearly avoiding everyone. You don’t have to, you can talk to us, always. We can even—“ _

 

_ Message deleted.  _

 

_ Ash stared at the phone for a moment, looked up at the picture of Griffin and him at the age of six and abruptly went back to work. _

 

Like that, Ash started his week, in a routine that for two or three weeks began to be habitual; waking up at noon and having burnt coffee with a slice of bread, bathe if he was in the mood to bathe and let the hours of  in the solitude of his apartment or use that time to clean his house from head to toe. He wasn’t a compulsive cleaner, quite the opposite but that kept him busy at least.

 

Work didn’t keep him busy in the same way.  Rather, working with his friends didn’t keep him busy.

 

He could feel the looks of everyone in him; when people approached him with pity and nostalgia hanging from their clothes, the way in which his gang softened and began to obey Ash's orders without complaining, not even a single complain.

 

Ash stopped going one day, then two and then a week.  Nobody said a thing, he was aware of the business through Alex and Cain.

 

Alex had subtly suggested that it was time to return and Cain not so subtly told him he should return.  Ash ignored their suggestions for days.

 

School was the same, Ash was forced to go but lately he didn’t had the strength to attend nor the will.  He was a week and a half behind in every subject—in the world and how it went, more.

 

And that was the monotonous routine that Ash was getting used to, until Wednesday.

 

He climbed the stairs of his building.  Cold was the morning with the sun peeking through the high skyscrapers on the distance.  It was early but there was already activity in China Town.

 

As was his routine, he had woken up around eleven in the morning and had gone out to buy milk because his was no longer in the best of conditions.

 

At the entrance of his apartment was a man who seemed to be asleep with sunglasses.  . .the image became familiar.

 

Ash ignored the stranger and unlocked his door—body tense in case the man tried something, and before entering he said, "Oh, I didn’t see you.” He stretched his arms.

 

Ash turned with disinterest and said nothing, the man yawned and ran his hand through his purple hair.  Ash narrowed his eyes. This man was more than familiar, he was a memory.

 

"For your fortune, it's hard to find you.  You have a too random schedule. "

 

"Should I know you?" Ash asked straight to the point.

 

The man shrugged, "Alcohol did not make you remember;  I'm the man in the mailbox. You met me when you were at the bottom of sadness. "

 

Memories arrived seconds later;  A man next to a blue mailbox. Lenses when the night was enough and cold, a sad face, worried and—disappointed.

 

_ "Go home, Aslan," said a voice. _

 

Owner of the voice was the man in front of him.  Ash recognized the exaggerated purple hair and took a step back. The man did nothing.

 

"Who are you.  What are you doing in my house? " He demanded.

 

"Death.  For now, for you, I'm Shorter. "

 

"Death?"

 

"I am  _ the _ Death."

 

Ash said nothing, then, "What the fuck are you even saying," he laughed but didn’t lower his guard.

 

"You knew me your whole life, Aslan," his smile disappeared, "I cannot count on one hand the times you’ve been thinking of me since you were eight."

 

The bag with the milk fell to the ground and Ash slammed  _ Shorter  _ against the wall despite being taller.  Shorter did nothing.

 

"Keep playing with me—"

 

"I don’t, I’m just saying the facts.  I know you're not afraid of me—like many, but that time at the funeral was different, right? "

 

"You know nothing about me."

 

"I received your letter."

 

Shorter pulled out a torned and well folded envelope from his vest.  He recognized the letter with drops of beer and the blurry ink.

 

_ Death.  _ It said.  Ash released Shorter and looked at him for a second, then he laughed in disbelief, "Ya, tell Bones it's no fun."

 

"Nobody paid me to be here.  The only one who called me was you. "

 

Ash moved his hand without listening, picked up the milk and opened the door, "Tell them I'm not in the mood for jokes, or to talk to anyone," he turned and smiled falsely, "Have a nice day." And closed the door  in Shorter's face.

 

His heart was beating with speed.

 

Ash stared at the door for a moment, expecting to hear the retreating steps but hear nothing.  He turned around.

 

"I didn’t want to go in this way.  That's why I waited for you to arrive, it would have been rude if I letted myself in. "Shorter was inside his house, his hands raised as if Ash were a wild animal he wanted to reassure.  With good reason.

 

Ash released the bags and with extreme speed and agility took the gun under his sofa.  Shorter didn’t move an inch and Ash could see how he crossed the hall to the kitchen with the bags in his hand.

 

"Get out of my house!" Ash started towards him.  Shorter was storing the milk in the refrigerator.

 

"I can’t ," he said without turning, "I was struck by your words;  Who would say that humans write better feelings and emotions when they’re drunk? "He watched the kitchen in amazement.  It was a flat, small kitchen, nothing interesting.

 

"That letter—" Ash didn’t remember the content at all, but he knew what he had written at the end.  Clear in his memory. He pointed the gun at Shorter, "That letter was personal. You took it when I left it in the mailbox. "

 

Shorter looked at the gun and then at his green eyes, he thought they were the same.  "It's something personal between the two. I thought I read a vendetta against myself—and them, but that doesn’t oncern me yet. "

 

"How else could you know the content of the letter?  You were there before I sent them. "

 

"I had no idea of your motive for the letter," Shorter admitted, "but you were thinking so much about your death.  In how it would happen that night and that you would not mind crossing that street. That's why I was there. "

 

"Shut your fucking mouth or I swear I'll blow your head off." He unlocked it.

 

"Do it and your neighbors will call the police."

 

"Prove you are the death."

 

He seemed to anticipate this from him.  He leaned his body against the refrigerator.

 

"What do you want me to do?"

 

"I don’t now," he said exasperatedly, "kill something just by touching it."

 

Shorter laughed and for a second Ash only saw a boy of his age.

 

"That would make me human, don’t you think?"

 

Ash didn’t swallow it, with the gun he pointed twice towards the door, "Move and get out."

 

"Aslan understand that I'm not going anywhere."

 

In a second Ash had the gun against Shorter's chest, "It was that old man?  He told you to go to my brother's funeral? Did he tell you my name? What happened ten years ago—“

 

"Why would he tell me that, your father?  It’s not his business to tell a stranger, " Shorter held the gun and nailed it to his own chest, Ash wanted to release his hand but his strength surpassed that of Ash.  He felt a finger on his, on the trigger, then he shot. Ash raised his head quickly, dropped the gun and jumped back; Shorter was still standing with a hole in his clothes but without a hole in his body, the bullet on the floor in front of his feet.

 

"I hope it's been enough proof," Shorter picked up the gun and quickly disarmed the gun.

 

Ash gasped, Shorter turned and let out a frustrated sound, then smiled, "Your neighbors will only come to shut you up.  Are they used to you using the gun? " He took Ash's hand and guided him to the door.

 

Ash found the words at last, "We're not in the best of neighborhoods, they're used to it—let me go!" Shorter let go, "I'm not going anywhere with you."

 

He let out another laugh, "Who would like to walk in New York with the Death,"

 

"You're too optimistic to be the Death."

 

"Do you want me to carry a sickle and a black hood around?"

 

"That would be ridiculous."

 

Shorter smiled, "That's what I thought."

 

Ash planted his feet on the ground, "I'm not going anywhere."

 

"Very well, then we're staying." Shorter went to the small old room and dropped his body into the chair eaten by moths.  "You know, it's tiresome to walk around the city, sometimes I prefer to sleep every day—I would like to sleep as much as you do but there's never time.  . ." He closed his eyes and smiled again, (that smile you make when you remember a good joke), "Time. "

 

"Wait, you cannot stay at my house. I—I don’t understand what goin’ on; is it because of what I wrote?  Is that why you’re tormenting me? " He demanded.

 

For the first time he saw Shorter confused, he raised his glasses with his eyebrows arched, probably judging him. Ash returned the look.

 

"What?  Whatever I wrote; I don’t remember, and probably don’t regret it, "Ash said," I always choose the words delicately. "

 

Shorter smiled, "You were hard on both of us" He unfolded the letter and scratched his chin, they exchanged glances, "Would you like to read it?  To give you an idea of what I'm talking about. "

 

He hesitated, "No, it's yours." Shorter smiled.

 

"Yet." He said.  Ash couldn’t understand.

 

"Why do you bother? In visiting me I mean.  There are people who definitely need to have a talk with you, not me. "

 

Shorter said simply, "Everyone needs to talk to me at least once in their life and you Aslan, you’re one of them. You can’t evade me. I am present in all lives, waiting. 

That's what you do best—you understand what it's like to wait for years. “

 

"I would tell you that you have no idea of the torment but I assume you know about everyone's torment; however, you don’t truly understand.  You aren’t human after all. " Ash said.

 

Shorter made a surprised sound, "You have more than just a logical intelligence.  You're right, this body of a boy is for you to feel more relaxed around me. "

 

Ash had to laugh at that, "It doesn’t help your lack of everything human besides appearance."

 

Shorter closed his eyes.  Death rested, "I am not a psychologist, Ash.  I'm not going to tell you what's right and not in your life, nor will I get you out of your mourning and skepticism with slow, quiet voices.  I'm just going to keep you from touching bottom permanently. "

 

Ash couldn’t understand what he was listening to; death should even encourage his death and suffering.  The more deaths, the better for him. (They?). He must have said all that out loud because Shorter raised an eyebrow and with real curiosity, or excellent acting, he asked, "And because the sooner there are deaths the better?  Everyone will die at any time, even the indomitable lynx. It's only a matter of time. No point on rushing. "And Shorter opened his eyes immediately, sat up and looked at the window as if waiting for something.

 

Ash followed his sight and in the tree of his window was a bird with the blue chest.  Shorter and Ash saw him fly after seconds.

 

"It seems it’s not my time yet to talk."

 

"You've already talked, too much."

 

Shorter smiled sympathetically, "I just came to say hello. Since you refused to walk with me, I have no purpose to be with you—today," Shorter got up from the chair, straightened his vest and headed for the door, "I feel you need a friend right now, not a reminder of. . .you should walk again. It’s sunny and less chilly.” He said nothing.

 

Ash made no move to follow Shorter or anything else, nor did Shorter expect any reaction from Ash.  He only left the room naturally, as if he were used to it.

 

And Ash thought it was an overwhelming dream—a nightmare so real that he could smell beer from uncapped bottles, the smell of food from outside his window.  He was too sensitive, his skin was the one that moved with the wind, not the other way around. It was coincidence that by the time Shorter left, Ash began to notice his surroundings more than usual and he concluded that, moments later, what happened was real after all.

 

Ash listened to Shorter for the first time in his life; he went for a walk.

**Author's Note:**

> [Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/akielonkings)


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